"They say she kept quiet."
I heard a whisper from the bread line in front of me. Two flour-covered weavers. I tightly clutched yesterday's loaf heel, not looking up.
The other said, "Hask's whip can make stones cry," afraid and impressed. "10 hits." My cousin noticed the covers. He said the flesh seemed clean. It appeared to be improving.
One rise. Line was different. Three people behind them, but they didn't see me. Someone was talking about me like a ghost.
"She is cold," the first woman whispered. "Always was." It goes beyond her current behavior. Genetics for her. Feels wrong.
Holding the bread, I tightened. The crust hurt my hand. Not right. The story was becoming a disease instead of a peculiar discomfort. Mara said my body rumors were becoming folk tales.
The stories had come
